


Let Me Tempt You

by nonbinaryspock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, also this is my first and possibly only good omens fic so be nice, i'm sure i've gotten the timeline mixed up somehow but hopefully no one cares, not very shippy i'm afraid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 06:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinaryspock/pseuds/nonbinaryspock
Summary: Aziraphale stumbles upon Crowley, freshly fallen and disillusioned with the rebellion, in the middle of a desert. They have a chat and make faces at each other. Y'know, gay stuff.





	Let Me Tempt You

Crawly lies sprawled atop a large, flat rock, basking in the light of the midday sun. His tousled curls are flopped lazily across his scalp. He stares up at the sun in all its brilliance, feeling nothing more than unusually cold and excessively bored. He hadn’t realized that the whole rebellion thing would wind up being so dreadfully dull. Though, it’s not like Heaven was exactly a hub of excitement. He sighs, wondering if the fall was worth all the trouble. He’s been doing a lot of wondering lately.

A shadow blocks out the sun and he squints, sitting up halfway to see who turned out the lights. “Ah,” he says, reclining against the rock once more. “It’s you.”

“So you do remember me,” Aziraphale says. “I thought, after last time—well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” He clears his throat delicately, moving away from the sun and into Crawly’s field of vision. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the desert?”

Crawly waves a long fingered hand nonchalantly. “Relaxing,” he answers, despite not feeling relaxed in the slightest. “Enjoying my newfound freedom.”

He purses his lips, seeming quietly offended by his choice of phrasing. “Of all the places on Earth to relax,” he says under his breath. “Look, _I’m_ here on business, so I can’t have _you_ or… or _your people_ mucking things up.”

“What business could you possibly be conducting out here?” Crawly drawls. “There’s nothing for miles. Except little old me, of course.” He lets his head loll to one side, gazing up at Aziraphale with his unblinking yellow eyes. “Don’t tell me you came all this way just to pester me.”

“Nothing of the sort,” he replies with a little indignant huff. “There’s a miracle that needs performing for a man who should come through here any day now. Something about a well and some sheep. Very important, obviously.” He narrows his eyes, looking suspiciously at Crawly. “You haven’t been sent to thwart me, have you?”

Crawly scoffs. “Please. I’m not an angel anymore, angel. No one sends me anywhere.” This was, in fact, entirely untrue. As much as Crawly wanted Aziraphale to believe that his new life of damnation was all sunshine and free will, it ended up being a pretty lateral move. He was still a pencil pushing pawn being used in service of some Great Plan that he couldn’t be bothered to care about. The fact of the matter was he had been sent to this region to whisper temptations in the Pharaoh’s ear. It was, as he had been told, a very important job. But Crawly did not feel very important for having done it.

Aziraphale, once again, looks offended. But there is something else in his expression, something almost too subtle to place. Disappointment? “Don’t you miss it?” he asks, lowering his voice as if worried about eavesdroppers. “Don’t you miss being good? Just a little bit? I mean, you seem to be having a lovely time, er… relaxing, as you put it, but—well, didn’t it feel good to have a purpose?”

Crawly sits up abruptly, bristling at the accusation. “I have a purpose,” he grumbles, trying his best not to sound pouty. “And, what’s more, I didn’t need anyone else to give it to me. So you can take that holier than thou attitude and… and… get rid of it. I don’t know. But I _do_ know that I don’t need you to tell me I’m somehow better off on your side.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He fusses with his crisp, white robe, smoothing and adjusting it almost nervously. “It’s not what you hoped for, is it?” he asks after a while, his tone softening.

Crawly feels something inside him sink and he looks away. Was he really so miserable that even an angel as oblivious as this one could see it? “It’s not so bad,” he says unconvincingly. “Just… a bit more tedious than I anticipated.”

Aziraphale nods knowingly. “Things often are, once you get down to it.”

He studies the angel. Despite his composure and overwhelmingly prim manner, he seems wearier than an angel should. His eyes aren’t quite as bright as Crawly remembers from their first few encounters, and his face seems to sag a little as he looks at Crawly. He scoots to one side of the rock. “If you’re going to be out here for days waiting to enact your little miracle, you might as well sit.”

He hesitates, eyeing the space Crawly had made for him. “It’s a bit… dusty.”

Crawly rolls his eyes but, with a swish of his hand, shoos the dust away. “Better?”

Aziraphale smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, it’s nice to see that some demons still have manners,” he says, taking a seat beside Crawly. “There’s hope for you yet.” He remains poised and proper, folding his hands neatly in his lap as he sits. But he does seem to relax a little. And perhaps Crawly relaxes a little too.

“You know,” the angel begins, lowering his voice yet again, “I could put in a good word for you. Upstairs, if you know what I mean.” He says this with a shy glance up at the sky.

Crawly heaves a sigh of annoyance. “You angels always find a way to ruin everything,” he mutters. “It’s very _good_ of you to offer, but I don’t need any favors. I’m doing quite alright right here, thank you very much.”

“Oh, come _on_ Crawly,” Aziraphale says, frustration disrupting his carefully crafted demeanor. Up until this moment, Crawly hadn’t really been sure the angel even knew his name. “Just admit that falling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and it’s not actually any more fun or worthwhile than being on our side—the _winning_ side, I might add—and just… stop being so stubborn about the whole thing. And then you might be able to come home.”

“I’m not being stubborn.”

“Oh, yes you are, you _absolutely_ are!”

“If anyone’s being stubborn it’s you, angel.”

Aziraphale turns his nose up at the comment. “I don’t know the meaning of the word,” he says piously.

“Shouldn’t be so quick to throw it around, then, should you?” he mutters, sounding very much like a petulant child.

He gives Crawly a look, demonstrating that he, too, realizes how childish the argument is. “Look,” he says carefully, “I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need any help, then.” Crawly sticks his forked tongue out, flicking it rudely at Aziraphale. Perhaps he’s not quite through being petulant after all. “Have fun with your miracle but, as it turns out, I’m needed elsewhere.”

“I thought you said no one sends you anywhere anymore.”

“They don’t!” he splutters. “I’m—it’s not—I’m sending myself!” And, with an exasperated groan, he transports himself to the other side of the continent. “For an angel, he’s quite a bit of a bastard,” he grumbles to himself, beginning to trudge in what he thinks is the direction of a city. “Really, it’s the only thing that makes him halfway tolerable.”


End file.
